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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27682709">Transition of Power</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/stayneurotic/pseuds/stayneurotic'>stayneurotic</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Trek: Deep Space Nine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dubious Consent, F/M, Power Imbalance, Reader-Insert</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:15:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,725</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27682709</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/stayneurotic/pseuds/stayneurotic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dominion’s occupation of DS9 changes little about day-to-day life aboard the station you’ve always called home. Many familiar faces are gone, sure – replaced by ones you know you cannot trust. Life is lonelier. But things get a little more exciting when one Vorta representative takes a sudden interest in you.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Weyoun/Female Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. An Introduction</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Deep Space Nine has been your home for years now. Frankly, the Dominion could pry it from your cold, dead hands; as long as Bajorans were still allowed aboard the station, by the Prophets, you were staying.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sure, things were...different now. But not terrible. No one had known quite what to expect when the Cardassians retook the station, and many fled back to Bajor in fear of the violence that was sure to follow. But over the past few weeks tensions had begun to ease as it became apparent this occupation was far kinder than the last </span>
  <span>–</span>
  <span> no doubt a result of the competent diplomatic leadership of the Vorta heading the whole operation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You saw him sometimes, as you whiled away the afternoons people-watching on the Promenade. Flanked at all times by his Jem’Hadar guards, he wasted no time sightseeing - always places to be, people to meet. Occasionally a civilian would interrupt his brisk walk with a question or concern (the Cardassian officers knew better than to do so), but the Vorta betrayed no hint of annoyance and always took the time to hear them out. Rarely did the civilian seem satisfied by the exchange, but at least the new commander </span>
  <em>
    <span>appeared</span>
  </em>
  <span> to care about their day-to-day problems.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was all PR, you knew. Paving the way for a smooth transition of power. The Dominion knew very well what the Bajorans had suffered here on DS9 and wished to avoid such an ugly and inefficient occupation, preferring instead to secure the approval of its subjects. You suspected, however, that they cared even less about the Bajorans’ actual well-being than the Cardassian oppressors of old.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Snakes, all of them,” you sigh to yourself, shaking your head as you pick at your </span>
  <em>
    <span>gagh</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The Cardassians at least had the decency to show their scales; the Vorta hid their fangs beneath smiles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Worms, actually, I believe,” comes a mellifluous voice from above, and your eyes, darting up in a panic, widen the find that the subject of your thoughts is now standing at your table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You gape, completely unprepared to be face-to-face with the man you’d been watching all these weeks from afar. Amused by your panic, he smiles, gesturing at the empty chair across from you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mind if I join you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I – uh. No, not at all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You suspect he wouldn’t have taken no for an answer; but then, if you’re being honest, you didn’t really want to refuse him anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excellent.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Vorta slides gracefully into his seat and regards you with an unreadable expression; you hold his gaze for only a moment before his intimidating aura gets the best of you and you direct your eyes back to the squirming pile of gagh on your plate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, don’t stop on my account,” your new friend encourages, gesturing to your lunch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You hesitate and then laugh a little, nervously, folding the napkin in your lap. “Oh, I just… don’t seem to have much of an appetite anymore.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Frankly I don’t see how anyone could have an appetite for those things at all! Writhing, mushy little grubs.” He shudders theatrically. “It’s enough to make one want to gag. But, then, I do suppose I have a rather</span>
  <em>
    <span> discerning</span>
  </em>
  <span> palate. It can be quite limiting at times.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His smalltalk is beginning to put you at ease. Despite the disdain you hold for this man and all he represents, you feel a strange desire to play along with this pointless conversation – to get into his good graces. A strategic move to be sure, but something deeper, something visceral is yearning for more of that glowing Vorta smile, and the feeling frightens you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you tried any of the Bajoran restaurants on the Promenade?” you ask tactfully, leaning back in your chair. “Our cuisine is light years more appealing than the Klingons’. Loads of variety too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, once or twice,” he concedes, “but I usually take my meals alone. Too many pairs of prying eyes out here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gestures, without breaking eye contact, to the fellow diners at nearby tables. You glance over in time to see many of them turning hurriedly back to their meals. You feel very exposed all of a sudden.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It can be quite distracting. But, to answer your question more directly, yes, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> enjoy many Bajoran dishes. Hasperat souffle in particular is quite lovely.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You meet his gaze again as he mentions this. Its unwavering intensity unsettles you, and you find the next few words difficult to muster.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...I make a pretty good hasperat souffle. It’s my favorite thing to bake, actually.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How wonderful! You’ll have to make it for me sometime.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His words ring with genuine excitement. You realize with deepening horror that he means to follow through on that demand. Speechless, you stare at him for a beat before collecting yourself and supplying him with the response for which he’s still waiting: “Oh – sure – of course. Whenever you like.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Splendid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You feel warm under his glowing smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a moment, he laments with concern: “I’m certain you’re well aware of who I am, but I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Y/N.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Y/N,” he parrots back, tasting the name on his tongue, savoring it. A blush rises to your cheeks as the Vorta stands, reaches for one of your hands, and presses a soft kiss to the back of it. He maintains that paralyzing gaze the entire time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you for indulging me. I will take up no more of your time; I’m sure you’re a busy woman.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s...quite alright,” you assure him, and are shocked to realize you mean it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He fixes you with another lingering smile as he lets your fingers slide gently out of his grasp, and just before turning, adds: “I look forward to that souffle.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You watch in stunned silence as he returns to the Jem’Hadar awaiting him at the cafe entrance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the entirety of the time he and his cohorts have ruled over the station, you’ve known his name. You have simply never had to use it. But for the first time, as you parse what just happened, you don’t think of the man who shared your table as </span>
  <em>
    <span>the station commander</span>
  </em>
  <span> or </span>
  <em>
    <span>the Vorta oppressor</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You think of him as </span>
  <em>
    <span>Weyoun</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A First Date</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Very little changes for you over the next week – with one alarming exception. As you watch for the Vorta’s daily trek across the Promenade, it appears he also watches for you. Every afternoon, without fail, those violet eyes dart up to meet yours at your usual table on the upper deck. He holds the glance but briefly; just enough time to smile and nod to you. And, breathless, you nod back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You begin to sit with your back to the wall each time you dine out for lunch. So far, there have been no further interruptions by uninvited guests, but all the same you fear being caught off-guard again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After two weeks, you begin to relax, thinking perhaps it was an empty platitude after all. Vorta have so many other more important things to worry about than going on dates, you rationalize; he was probably just entertaining himself by playing with you during a moment of free time. It seems the type of thing Weyoun would do, if he noticed someone taking a special interest in him. Stealthy as you thought you were being, dealing in furtive glances and sidelong stares, you really aren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> surprised to know he saw right through you. Or maybe, with those unique ears of his, he simply heard you making your judgmental comments to yourself as he strode by. Really a terrible habit. You wonder, uselessly, what he’s heard you say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The chime of an incoming transmission interrupts your contemplation. Curious, you set down your raktajino and tell the computer to put the audio through.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your blood runs cold when you hear the velvety voice on the line.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ahh, Y/N! How lovely to speak with you again. I trust I did not wake you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I – ah, no. I was just about to have breakfast, actually.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well then, please excuse my interruption. I don’t intend to take up much of your time; I was simply wondering if you’d do me the honor of sharing dinner with me tonight. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>seem to recall some promises being made about your famous hasperat souffle?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You’re grateful there is no visual feed to capture your wide-eyed expression. Your first instinct is to search for excuses, and a moment of silence passes as you reach for one –</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It doesn’t have to be tonight, of course,” soothes the Vorta at your hesitation. “I did take the liberty of contacting your employer, I hope that’s alright,” – it isn’t – “and he informed me that you have two days off each week, so I’m certain we can work something out if you aren’t free this particular evening.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Damnit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You have no choice but to relent: “No, no...this evening is fine, actually.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wonderful! Then I’ll be over, oh, say, nineteen hundred hours?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I look forward to it,” he concludes, the smile audible in his voice, and with a dismissive chime the call cuts out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You lean forward and hold your head in your hands. This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>the kind of day off you were hoping for. You had reading to catch up on, friends to chat with, shop windows to peruse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now you have a souffle to bake.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>At half past eighteen hundred hours, your quarters were clean, the table was set, and the souffle was in the oven. You’d dug out an acceptably refined cocktail dress from your closet, not having expected to be donning it at any point during this occupation, and sat yourself down in front of a mirror to apply makeup with a trembling hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nineteen-hundred comes and goes. Weyoun strikes you as a very punctual man; is he late on purpose? You fiddle nervously with the hem of your dress, watching the door, your anxiety growing by the minute; your hand is halfway to the bottle of springwine you’ve set out when the sound of the door-chime nearly causes you to jump out of your skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come in!” you blurt, rising and smoothing out your dress.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door slides open and in steps one dashing Vorta – who, upon entry, stops to take in his surroundings. He surveys your elegantly-decorated quarters with quiet amusement before settling his gaze on you, and, smiling, he steps forward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your quarters are nearly as lovely as you are. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>truly </span>
  </em>
  <span>am grateful for the privilege of dining here with you tonight. Thank you once again for the invitation.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>As though he didn’t invite himself,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you think. But as he speaks, he takes one of your hands in his and presses the back of it to his lips, and quite quickly your head empties of all thought. He holds on just a moment or two longer than necessary before releasing it as well as the gaze with which he had affixed you, which you notice is quite effective at keeping you rooted to the spot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah! Springwine,” he notes suddenly, breaking the tension. You turn your attention to the coffee table where you’d prepared a bottle and two glasses. “How thoughtful of you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He guides you to the sofa with a hand on your elbow and you both take a seat. Your anxiety begins to bubble over.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I, uh. Hope you like springwine. I wasn’t really sure what you’d prefer – springwine can be so sweet, sometimes it’s a little overpowering – but it goes well with hasperat, tempers the spice a bit, you know, and I had a couple bottles lying around anyway, so I figured…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You trail off, your babbling ceasing as Weyoun clasps a hand over the one you had just set on the bottle. You glance up to him, uncertain, but the kindness behind his smile is reassuring and you relax just an iota.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It will be just fine. But truly, my dear, you’ve done enough already – at least allow me to do this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You nod, and he softens his grip enough for you to slip your hand out of it. As he pops the cork and begins to fill the glasses, you find your thoughts drifting to worry again, to fear; the phrase “comfort woman” swirls in your mind. You wonder with increasing panic what exactly this man expects of you tonight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Weyoun hands you your wine glass and raises his into the air, waiting for you to do the same. “A toast,” he says, “to the beginning of a wonderful friendship.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You smile. You tap your glass against his. You take a sip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Vorta leans back in his seat and regards you pensively. “You seem...uneasy,” he points out, crossing his legs. “Not at all like you were at that Klingon cafe. Is everything alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You stare into your wine as if trying to find an answer there. None comes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...My dear.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is a soft </span>
  <em>
    <span>clink</span>
  </em>
  <span> as Weyoun sets his glass down. You startle as his fingers brush just beneath your chin, guiding you to look away from your drink and into his eyes. Behind them resides – to your confusion – genuine concern.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean to pressure you into anything that would make you uncomfortable. Perhaps I was too forward – but I was certain I detected a hint of interest from you over the course of these last few weeks. Forgive me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He bows his head in apology.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You realize you’re at a crossroads. He’s offering you an out – something you very desperately wanted a moment ago. However, now that the option is available to you, it seems entirely the wrong choice. Why, after all, would you have spent the entire day making sure that souffle would be the best you’ve ever baked? Why would you have dolled yourself up, broken out the springwine?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>These are not the actions of a woman under duress.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly feeling very foolish, you scramble over yourself to correct him: “No! No, I… I am… interested.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His head jolts back up. You shrink a bit under his intense stare, but as he leans forward and takes your hands in his, his excitement begins to usurp your fear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m very glad to hear it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A smile twitches at your lips. “I’d just… like to take things slow, you know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Perfectly understandable,” he accedes, and releasing your hands, he returns to his glass of wine. “From this moment forward I promise not to do anything that might jeopardize your comfort.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the first time that night, you truly relax.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>The souffle is ready in short time and the two of you while away the night chatting about this and that. You learn Weyoun cannot stand the fizziness of Bajoran ale, but – being unable to taste most things – he quite enjoys the smoothness of springwine, even if its sweetness fails to register at all. Likewise, his affection for hasperat souffle stems from its airy, delicate texture, and the strong level of spice approximates something close to taste for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You’re convinced you’ve thoroughly bored him with your menial tales of day-to-day life, the rants about your annoying coworkers and your anecdotes surrounding family recipes. But Weyoun attends it all with rapt attention, even after the two of you have polished off the entire bottle of springwine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You’re quite surprised when the computer interrupts a moment of shared laughter to announce the initialization of your nightly bedtime routine. The lights fade to sunset-orange and a short chime indicates you’ve entered do-not-disturb mode.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” you sigh, disappointed. “Is it that late? I didn’t realize…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s my fault,” interjects Weyoun, standing and straightening his clothes. “I’ve stolen your entire night away. How rude of me!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He offers you his hands. You take them, relishing how cold they feel against your warm skin, and allow him to lead you to the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please accept my apologies.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Staring into those smoldering amethyst eyes, you flush suddenly, realizing the vulnerable position you’re in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kiss.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s going to go for it. He’s going to expect it, after the wonderful night you’ve shared – and you don’t want to insult him, don’t want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>disappoint</span>
  </em>
  <span> him, even, but you’re not sure if you’re ready, you haven’t thought about it –</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He brings your hands up to his lips. On the knuckles of each hand he plants a kiss, firm, poignant. You shudder at the contrast between his cold hands and warm breath. At his unbroken eye contact.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...Apology accepted,” you exhale.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiles in return. Bows his head, releases you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I look forward very much to our next meeting.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then he’s gone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You collapse onto the sofa, suddenly drained. The background hum of the station is the only sound in your quarters now and the relative silence presses in on you like a physical presence. The empty wine glasses cast your reflection back on you – and you feel judged.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You close your eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Prophets have mercy.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A Walk Together</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You don’t consider yourself a particularly religious woman. You have always had faith in the Prophets, of course, and you attend weekly services whenever you can afford the time. But in all your years aboard the station, you can’t recall ever stepping foot in the temple outside of service hours simply to pray.<b><br/>
</b></p><p>You’ve done so three times this week.</p><p>The silence and stillness of the shrine seems to help, for a moment. As you kneel onto an empty pillow and bow your head, your chaotic thoughts begin to subside, replaced by a single, focused prayer.</p><p><em>Prophets,</em> you think, though you sometimes sense you’re talking to yourself more than to them.<em> Please, guide me. I didn’t think I had a choice, at first, with this man. He wanted me and I could not deny him, for fear of what would happen to me. But the more we talk, the clearer it is that he isn’t forcing me into anything. I’m continuing it of my own free will.</em></p><p>You lace your fingers together and squeeze your eyes shut in concentration.</p><p>
  <em>I know he’s a dangerous man. An evil one. He represents the empire that could tear the Alpha Quadrant apart. And I know he must have committed atrocities of his own as well. I shouldn’t want to be with him – I should be repulsed. But I can’t help it. When he leaves, I miss his presence. I think about him as I lie awake at night. I wonder what kind of a man he is, under that diplomatic persona. I want to get to know him. And I...I like how I feel around him. He makes me feel interesting. And wanted. Desirable, but respected. He treats me kindly, with a gentleness I never thought him capable of, that I’ve never experienced from another lover. And I know the right course of action is to end this before it begins, to reject his advances before they can go any further...but I feel in my heart that I would regret it forever.</em>
</p><p>A heavy sigh falls from your lips.</p><p>
  <em>You gifted us with the ability to love so we could appreciate being bathed in your holy light. It is the purest, most powerful force in the world. So how could it ever be wrong? Would I...be a collaborator if I continued this? Is the only moral course of action to forget this affair? Or is this part of my fate – to capture the heart of a powerful enemy and help save his soul, and maybe some lives in the process?</em>
</p><p>You pause, your heart laid bare, and wait for a response. But you don’t really expect one. The Prophets have never spoken to you – not directly, at least – and you don’t expect them to start now. Even if you are in terrible need of guidance. For a moment you consider asking the vedek for advice, but you suspect he won’t give you an entirely unbiased answer when he realizes the object of your affections is none other than the station’s Vorta oppressor.</p><p>The musky scent of incense swirls in the air around you. Quieted but still frustrated by your own uncertainty, you take a moment to breathe and center yourself as best you can before heading back out to the Promenade.</p><p>The serenity you found inside the temple begins to fade away as soon as you leave it. You pause to survey the station inhabitants shuffling to and fro, their heads bowed, their faces weary. As much weighs on their minds as on yours. </p><p>A sudden call snaps you out of your reverie.</p><p>“Y/N!” comes the excited, familiar voice, and you turn with surprise to see Weyoun flanked by his Jem’Hadar guards. Caught off-guard, you gape for a moment as he approaches.</p><p>“Hi,” you manage. He beams at you in response.</p><p>“Will you walk with me for a moment?”</p><p>Your answer follows before you can give it even a moment’s thought: “Of course.”</p><p>The Vorta turns and you fall in tow as the four of you cross the Promenade. You’re not entirely pleased to be seen in public with Weyoun – you keep glancing about as though fearful of the judgmental glares you’re bound to receive – but the majority of people you pass seem entirely uninterested in your little rendezvous. Beyond, of course, the usual uneasy glances they direct at Weyoun.</p><p>“I really did enjoy our dinner last week,” he says with a hum. “I apologize for not contacting you sooner.”</p><p>“It’s alright. I’m sure you’re a very busy man.”</p><p>“Oh, you have no idea the extent of it. I’ve rarely a moment to myself, let alone time to enjoy the company of others. Which brings me to my point.”</p><p>He pauses in front of a window and turns to gaze out at the stars. You do the same, and a faint wistfulness tugs at your heartstrings as you stare at the space where the wormhole hasn’t opened in months.</p><p>“I’d like to see more of you,” Weyoun says softly.</p><p>You look over at him with such a panicked haste that he quickly adds an addendum: “If that’s alright.”</p><p>“I – you – yes, of course it’s alright,” you stutter, and feeling sheepish, you avert your eyes and tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ears.</p><p>You can hear the smile (and notes of what sound like genuine relief) in Weyoun’s voice as he replies. “I’m glad to hear it. As it happens, my meeting with Gul Dukat later this evening has been fortuitously postponed – and I can think of no greater way to spend my suddenly free time than in the pleasure of your company.”</p><p>You glance up to see he’s turned from the window to face you, and his wide eyes glimmer with anticipation as he awaits your response.</p><p>You hesitate. Something within you is begging to say no, to run away – but you can’t fathom the possibility of extinguishing the spark of excitement in those amethyst eyes...</p><p>“Unless...you have a prior engagement?” he prompts at your hesitation, and the way his eyebrows raise and his lips tug into a frown has you scrambling to comfort him.</p><p>“No! No, I’m free. I’d love to join you,” you assure, quite earnestly in fact, you realize, and Weyoun’s expression melts back into a pleased smile.</p><p>“Excellent. I was thinking perhaps a change of scenery this time; I’ve already taken the liberty of securing a holosuite reservation. I think you’re going to like the program I’ve selected.”</p><p>Before you can inquire, Weyoun reaches for your hands, and the feeling of his soft skin brushing against yours steals the words right out of your mouth. You find yourself helpless under his gaze once more as he strokes his thumbs over the back of your hands, and in that simple, paralyzing touch you completely forget the two of you are in the public eye.</p><p>“I’ll pick you up from your quarters at eighteen hundred hours. Dress for warm weather.”</p><p>He presses a quick kiss to one of your hands and then is gone, leaving you breathless by the window.</p><p>No one had been paying you much attention before. But after that public display of affection, you notice several pairs of eyes quickly dart away as you turn back toward the Promenade.</p><p>You suppose you’d better go find a dress.</p>
<hr/><p>The door-chime rings at eighteen-hundred hours exactly, and you wonder if Weyoun had perhaps been standing there waiting for the precise moment to strike. With one last glance in the mirror to straighten your hair, you answer the door, and the sight momentarily stuns you.</p><p>You hadn’t seen Weyoun in any outfit other than his typical – was it a uniform? That strange, asymmetrical garb he always wore. But as an ambassador, it made sense that he would have a variety of clothing suitable for multiple climates, and he had donned one such outfit here for the occasion. It resembled his usual attire, in all its intricately-patterned, multi-textured glory, but revealed much more skin than you were used to seeing on the Vorta. Lapels of thin leather stretched out to just barely cover his shoulders, leaving his arms completely bare. The pleated mauve undershirt (though you doubted it was its own garment entirely, more likely just a piece of fabric sewn into the vest for modesty) dipped down low to reveal both collarbones, and the asymmetrical hem of the garment jutted out just above his hips. His trousers – a shade more form-fitting than usual – were cuffed at the shin, revealing a sliver of calves between the hem and the ankle-high boots he wore.</p><p>You had worried about feeling a little too dressed-down, in your flowing sundress and delicate sandals, next to the stiff and regal Vorta. But the casual outfit assuages your fears and you both grin – you a little giddily – to see the other in a new light.</p><p>“You look stunning as always, my dear,” Weyoun notes, “but especially so tonight.”</p><p>You hesitate as he offers you his arm, but the reality is that after this morning, the whole station likely knows about the two of you; there’s no point hiding this courtship anymore. You take his arm.</p><p>“I could say the same of you,” you tease, a little emboldened by the feeling of walking on the station commander’s arm. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you show quite so much skin.”</p><p>A smirk tugs at the corners of Weyoun’s lips, and you sense he’s debating saying something, but quickly decides against it. He simply chuckles. </p><p>“I’m glad you like it.”</p><p>A thought occurs to you and you voice it tentatively as the two of you (followed, as always, by the Jem’Hadar guards) make your way down the corridors.</p><p>“Weyoun – is it true your people don’t have a sense of aesthetics?”</p><p>“Yes. The Founders did not deem it necessary for our purposes.”</p><p>You think you detect a hint of bitterness. But he continues on cheerfully: “Personally, as a diplomat, I do see the advantages; every culture has its own unique sense of style and taste, and if I had my own personal preferences among them, I might find it more difficult to establish relations with races whose appearances or architecture I disliked.”</p><p>“I guess that makes sense,” you mutter, not really agreeing. “I just wondered – you always compliment my appearance…”</p><p>“Ah,” he chuckles, “yes. I assure you those are genuine.”</p><p>At your look of confusion, he furrows his brow, trying to find the easiest way to explain. </p><p>“...Allow me to illustrate it for you with an example. If you showed me two dresses – one horribly tacky, the other beautiful and elegant – and asked me to label which one was which, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. To me, they’re both slips of fabric in various colors and patterns woven together to make a garment. I cannot detect whether certain colors clash with one another, or if certain shapes are unflattering on one’s body. But what I can appreciate is the woman <em>wearing</em> the dress. Her whole demeanor often changes when she slips into a garment as beautiful as she is; she becomes more comfortable, more open, more in tune with her inner light. When I compliment her, I’m voicing my appreciation for things like...the way her smile lights up the room. The tinge of color on her cheeks and the spark in her eyes. The grace with which she carries herself. Her confidence in flaunting such a flawless appearance.”</p><p>He pauses to drive his point home by setting his free hand gently over the one you’ve laid on his arm and meeting your eyes with a suave smile. Your foundation does nothing to hide the blush that rises to your cheeks, and you to your horror a giggle bubbles up from your lips.</p><p>“Regardless,” Weyoun sighs, pleased at the response he’s elicited, “I can certainly appreciate the effort you’ve expended going out of your way to gild yourself for my enjoyment.”</p><p>Heads turn as you enter Quark’s, and for a moment you avert your eyes and stare to the ground in embarrassment – but Weyoun doesn’t falter an instant, and the sheer confidence with which he carries himself bolsters you. You lift your head with some effort, clinging just a bit more tightly onto his arm. </p><p>Quark has the data rod with your holosuite program in his hand as you approach the bar; his expression is unreadable. Weyoun thanks him and takes it, and you continue upstairs.</p><p>“I do hope you like it,” he says, a little more loudly over the noise of the bar, as he slots the data rod into the panel. “Having never been to Bajor myself, I can only hope it is a faithful reproduction.”</p><p>You turn to fix him with a questioning look, but he only bows and gestures for you to head inside.</p><p>“After you.”</p><p>The doors part and you immediately feel a blast of warm air, a welcome feeling on your bare, goosebump-prickled skin. You step inside – followed closely by Weyoun – and the Jem’Hadar take up post outside the holosuite just before the doors slide shut.</p><p>The program, to your wonder and delight, is a perfect re-creation of one of Bajor’s most famous forests. Your home planet is well-known for its natural splendor – sprawling mountains, rolling hillsides, breathtaking falls – and this woodland is a shining example. Impossibly high, purple-barked trees stretch toward the endless sky, their leaves casting a shimmering dappled shadow upon the needle- and moss-covered ground. A brook winds and weaves through the web of tree trunks and their gnarled roots, its water crystal clear, its shores adorned by smooth pebbles and stones. Small woodland creatures dart to and fro throughout the underbrush, and you watch with quiet fascination as one of them – a long-eared, round-eyed lagomorph – pauses to nibble at the bud of a crimson sunset-lily.</p><p>You’re sufficiently awed.</p><p>“I take it,” Weyoun says softly from behind you, and you startle a bit, having all but forgotten he was there, “the program passes muster?”</p><p>“More than,” you reply, and turning to face him, you offer a genuine smile of gratitude. “I feel like I’m home again.”</p><p>A warm smile touches his lips, creases the corners of his eyes.</p><p>“I’m pleased to hear it.”</p><p>As the two of you approach the trailhead, Weyoun slides a graceful arm around your shoulders. He holds you firmly, but not tightly, and his embrace – the tingling sensation of his soft skin on your bare shoulders, the feeling of safety under his grasp – transforms you into a blushing maiden, clinging onto your shining knight. You wrap a reciprocating arm around his lower back as you both begin down the dirt path.</p><p>“I’m glad to be able to see some of your homeworld,” he muses after a few moments of contented silence, interrupting the cheerful sounds of birdsong. “Even if it is only a facsimile. My occupation, unfortunately, does not allow me much vacation time.”</p><p>He says this with a chuckle, intending the comment to be light-hearted, but you can hear an undercurrent of bitterness – the same subtle tone you noticed in your earlier conversation. The polite thing to do would be to move on; talk about the places in Bajor he should visit if he ever gets the chance. But you know it would be an empty gesture. There’s an opportunity here, and you’d be remiss to let it pass you by.</p><p>“...Weyoun,” you start carefully, and he glances over to you, attentive at your sudden tone of concern. “Do you ever…wish things were different?”</p><p>“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he fires back, a little too quickly. His eyes slide back to the path in front of you.</p><p>“Yes, you do.”</p><p>Silence stretches out between you as Weyoun contemplates his answer. His arm around your shoulders has slackened a little and you aren’t sure if this risk is paying off the way you intended it to. After several long moments, he heaves a sigh, laden with a burden you sense he’s reluctant to acknowledge.</p><p>“Sometimes…”</p><p>He stops himself. You try to decipher the expressions crossing his face but they’re entirely unreadable. He glances back to you – looks down – sighs again. When he speaks, his words are deliberate, chosen with laborious care.</p><p>“Sometimes, I do harbor thoughts of what life might be like if circumstances were...different. There are many pleasures in this world unknowable to me; the taste of a home-cooked meal, for instance. Art in any capacity. Music, especially, I wish I could appreciate.”</p><p>“You can’t even enjoy music?”</p><p>“When I listen to a song, it’s as if I’m…” – his hand dances about in the air, searching for an apt comparison – “...looking at a sheet of mathematical equations. I can pick out the individual instruments, note the changes in their pitch, recognize patterns and motifs. But the whole of the song, the <em>heart</em> of it, escapes me.”</p><p>You both ponder this sad reality.</p><p>“I do think it would be nice to be able to carry a tune,” he laments after a long moment. “Or to dance. I’m a truly <em>terrible</em> dancer.”</p><p>The image of lovely, graceful Weyoun stumbling around a dancefloor elicits a burst of laughter from you, despite the heavy subject matter; Weyoun laughs along, relieved his attempt at cutting the tension was successful.</p><p>“That’s a shame. I don’t know how the Vorta usually woo their women, but on Bajor, dinner and dancing is usually part of the package at some point.”</p><p>“Well, I’ve managed to woo you without having to resort to dancing just yet.”</p><p>“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” you retort, grinning.</p><p>Weyoun agrees with a hearty chuckle.</p><p>“Let’s hope not.”</p>
<hr/><p>The two of you make your way down the winding trail, enjoying the sights and sounds of the woodland as you go. Weyoun, ever the gentleman, leads you by a hand over the fallen logs and stepping-stones that serve as bridges across the stream, his grip a comforting assurance. He waits ever so patiently when you pause to beckon to the furry little creatures eyeing you from the underbrush, and he is adequately fascinated by your explanations of the various flora and fauna, even humoring you when you pick the occasional flower and offer it for him to smell.</p><p>“Do you even have a sense of smell?” you question him at one point, twirling the stem of a flower between your fingertips; those of your other hand are laced comfortably with his.</p><p>“I do,” he assures, a little amused by the question but understanding of its necessity. “Scent plays a pivotal role in making good first impressions; it’s one of the first things a person notices. I find it helpful, actually, to tailor my own scent to match the preferences of those with whom I wish to establish good relations. It’s a subtle enough gesture, but effective.”</p><p>“Is that why you always smell so sweet?” You give him a light jab to the ribs.</p><p>He grins at your playful tone, shoots you a look of mirthful defeat.</p><p>“You caught me.”</p><p>“How did you know I’d like that scent in particular?”</p><p>“Well…”</p><p>Weyoun trails off, and in the span of that one word the tone of the conversation has shifted to something decidedly less lighthearted. Your attention is drawn to him as he withdraws his hand from your own and clasps it with his other; you wonder if that might be a nervous habit.</p><p>“Being station commander has its...advantages. There is very little that goes on here without my knowing, and likewise very little information inaccessible to me. If I wish to know...say...a particular occupant’s work schedule...or shopping habits...”</p><p>“You <em>stalked</em> me!” you accuse, and although the offense rings clear in your voice, you can’t honestly say it runs all that deep. Either way, you aren’t surprised.</p><p>“Stalk is a <em>strong word!”</em> Weyoun insists, the pitch of his voice rising as he hurries to defend himself. “I merely – gathered some basic information – to give myself the best possible chance of ensuring the outcome I wanted.”</p><p>“Which was?”</p><p>He looks at you a little strangely. The answer is obvious, of course, but you want to hear him say it.</p><p>“To win your affection. Which, it seems, I have. Or am I mistaken?”</p><p>His turn to ask the obvious question. You smile and lower your gaze to the ground.</p><p>“You have.”</p><p>“Then the ends justified the means.”</p><p>The trail opens up into a clearing, and you come upon the shore of a vast lake. There’s a stretch of fence close to the shoreline and you lean against it as you take in the sight: the rippling surface of the water glimmers like so many gemstones, reflecting the deep orange and violet hues of the Bajoran sunset.</p><p>It occurs to you that your Vorta friend may not be able to enjoy this painterly scene to the same extent you can. You glance over to him – and startle to see his gaze is fixed intently on you. It doesn’t waver as you meet it, and the unabashed eye contact brings a sudden warmth to your cheeks.</p><p>“What?” you finally ask, a little sheepish.</p><p>Weyoun’s smile grows just a shade deeper as he answers.</p><p>“You enjoy looking at the sunset. I enjoy looking at you.”</p><p>The simplicity of the statement only excites the butterflies in your stomach. You smile nervously, self-conscious, as Weyoun studies your face with a sudden, urgent interest; his smile fades and his brow creases with concentration. He’s searching for something – and whatever it is, he’s desperate to find it.</p><p>You’re just about to ask what’s wrong when his hand lifts to your face, and the gentle hold he takes of your cheek steals your thoughts away completely. His palm is soothingly cool; his touch, comforting and still. You notice his eyes slide down to your lips and you realize with paralyzing clarity what it is, exactly, he wants.</p><p>The next few moments happen in slow motion.</p><p>You allow the hand cupping your cheek to guide your face upwards, and Weyoun’s head tilts to the side, making room for you. You spare a glance down to his lips, then back up to his eyes, tender and heavy-lidded; your lips part and you suck in a small, quiet gasp of air, the last you’ll get for the next several seconds. As Weyoun leans down to close the last inch of space between you, your eyelids flutter shut – and an infinite, breathless moment passes before you feel his soft lips press, tender and sweet, into yours.</p><p>He lingers there motionless for several moments, the pad of his thumb stroking your cheek, before beginning to pull away – but you don’t let him. The instant his lips leave yours, your hands shoot up to grasp the sides of his face and pull him back down for more, and he obliges, gladly; you press up into him with more force, mashing your lips together in a hungry bid for intimacy, and he exhales heavily into the kiss, returning every ounce of passion. His hand slips from your face and you feel his arms wrap tightly around your middle, pulling your body into his, and for several long minutes the only sounds around you are the distant calls of the waterfowl and the lapping of gentle waves at the shore.</p><p>Neither of you wants to end this perfect moment. But, inevitably, one of you must break for air, and of course it happens to be you. You pull back just enough to breathe; your eyes blink open to meet Weyoun’s, and as you relocate your hands from his face to rest upon his shoulders, you notice with some amusement the faintest tinge of purple in his cheeks.</p><p>“Wow,” you exhale, lightheaded.</p><p>“Wow,” he agrees.</p><p>His grip on your waist loosens and, self-consciousness returning, you turn back toward the lake and allow the cool breeze to soothe your burning face. Weyoun releases you to instead rest a hand on the small of your back, and you lean into him, heart aflutter.</p><p>A few minutes of silence – of perfect, serendipitous peace – draw to a reluctant close as the automated voice of the computer informs you your holosuite reservation is at an end. You release the fence posts just as they disappear from beneath your hands and frown as the beautiful expanse of forest before you gives way to the cramped and machinery-cluttered interior of the holosuite.</p><p>“A pity,” sighs Weyoun, turning to you and taking your hands in his own. “I was hoping that hour might break the rules of spacetime and stretch out just a bit longer.”</p><p>It’s a little cheesy, but you giggle anyway, and he grins to have gotten to you. Lifting a hand to his lips, he presses one of his signature kisses to the back of it, and you sigh, squeeze his hand in return.</p><p>Emerging from the holosuite on Weyoun’s arm once more, you cringe at the din of the bar, so cacophonous compared to the quiet of the forest. But nothing can shake the absolute serenity now instilled within you. You practically float down the walkway, and though pairs of eyes follow your progress as they did before, this time you find it quite easy to pay them no mind.</p><p>Weyoun notes your confidence with an approving hum. “Not so self-conscious now, I see.”</p><p>You grin a little, shrug your shoulders. He responds with a chuckle and teases you in that lilting, singsong voice of his: “I wonder why.”</p><p>The walk back to your quarters is shorter than you’d like it to be, and before you know it you’re standing at the entrance to your quarters. Frowning, you turn to face Weyoun, not quite ready to part ways.</p><p>“It was a pretty short hour,” you say.</p><p>“Indeed it was.”</p><p>“It doesn’t...have to be over so soon. You <em>could</em> come inside…”</p><p>“I’m afraid not, my dear,” he sighs, and there’s genuine disappointment in his voice as he cradles your hands in his own. “I’m due elsewhere on the station in five minutes’ time.”</p><p>He soothes away your dejection with another quick couple of kisses to the back of your knuckles – and then, with a coy smile, one to the very corner of your lips. You turn your head to try to catch it full-on, but he dodges you deftly – ever the tease. You understand the purpose behind this tactic of leaving you wanting at the end of each of your encounters, but it frustrates you all the same, and Weyoun grins infuriatingly at your pouting.</p><p>“Try not to fret too much. I promise I’ll be in touch again very soon.”</p><p>You can only swallow, nod, and linger on his gaze as long as politely possible before allowing your hands to slip from his and turning with great reluctance to enter your quarters.</p><p>Sleep hasn’t been coming easily to you these past few weeks. But tonight, it greets you kindly, and you drift into an easy slumber with a smile on your lips.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. A Night on Bajor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter got real fucking long. I'm sorry.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I’m really not sure I can–”</p><p>“All that will be required of you is to cling to my arm and smile. I’ll handle every introduction and conversation and I promise not to leave your side for an instant.”</p><p>“I could never get the time off work on such short notice.”</p><p>“I’ve already spoken to your employer. He assures me they’ll be just fine without you for a shift or two.”</p><p>You push the food around on your plate, fumbling for another excuse. Weyoun watches you from across the table with patient eyes.</p><p>“...I don’t have anything fancy enough to wear.”</p><p>“Not a problem. I’ll find you an appropriate dress.”</p><p>At your side-eye, he adds, a little flusteredly, “Well, I <em> personally </em>won’t find the dress, I’ll delegate that task to someone with a keener sense of taste. But I’ll procure one for you.”</p><p>You look up fully from your lunch to meet Weyoun’s gaze, and his quiet, confident optimism tells you you aren’t going to squirm your way out of this. With a sigh, you finally nod your resignation.</p><p>“Fine. I’ll do it.”</p><p>Weyoun’s smile spreads wide across his face. “Excellent.”</p><p>“But I’m <em> warning </em>you I’m not good at these things.”</p><p>He waves a dismissive hand as if the notion were unfathomable. “I have the utmost confidence in you, my dear. And I think you’ll find you may enjoy yourself more than you expect to.”</p><p>He rises from his seat and rounds the table to approach you. You’re quite unprepared for the soft, lingering kiss with which he graces you, and when he pulls away your face is brightly flushed and your ability to form any coherent thought has vanished completely.</p><p>Weyoun’s smug, satisfied smile conveys clearly how much he enjoys having this power over you. He gives a small bow of the head as he bids you farewell.</p><p>“Until tomorrow, then.”</p>
<hr/><p>All your previous trips to Bajor had transpired aboard the shuttle which made the passage daily to and from Deep Space Nine. The transport shuttle was a cost-effective method of travel, but it was always cramped and densely populated, full of other civilians anxiously passing the hours buried in their padds or staring out at the passing stars.</p><p>It was a far cry from the <em> Tenak’Talar. </em></p><p>Able to traverse open space at higher warp speeds, the Dominion flagship sped through the journey in half the time. And – you had to admit – the view was far better.</p><p>Weyoun had offered to let you wear the eyepiece that allowed you to see outside the ship, projecting a translucent image into your mind’s eye of the fantastic stellar landscape flying by all around you. The device had quickly given you a headache, however, and you spent the rest of the journey in the comforting serenity of Weyoun’s quarters, lying across a sofa with the lights low and a comforting hand stroking your hair.</p><p>He’d softly wakened you upon arrival, and the two of you – accompanied by a number of Jem’Hadar guards – transported down to the surface. Sadly, there was no time to sightsee: you had only a short hour or so to prepare for the gala.</p><p>Weyoun had arranged lavish accommodations. Uncertain how comfortable you’d be sharing a room, he secured a suite, spacious and open with floor-to-ceiling windows – framed by billowing curtains and providing an uninterrupted view of Bajor’s verdant splendor. Artisan vases filled with freshly cut flowers decorate the room with splashes of vibrant color and the air with a melody of scents; warm light cast from the setting sun dances across polished stone surfaces and the ivory satin sheets of each enormous down-feather bed.</p><p>“The privileges,” Weyoun says with a smirk at your awe, “of being a head-of-state.” </p><p>He provides you with a slim gift box before you each retreat to your respective rooms to prepare, and your jaw falls slack as you open it and unfold the dress within.</p><p>Floor-length, mermaid-style, the sleek black fabric clings to your curves from the sweetheart neckline down to the juncture of your knees, where it flares out sharply. Layered folds of diaphanous violet tulle erupt out from a slit down the back, trailing behind you like a peacock’s tail-feathers. It is, to your chagrin, too thin for underclothes – but as you try it on you find it supports your curves perfectly. You wonder in vague curiosity where Weyoun procured your measurements.</p><p>In the box beneath the garment, you find a pair of silver earrings – inlaid with shimmering amethysts – and a necklace to match. The right-side earring, a traditional two-piece set connected by a slender chain, is decorated with the fine pattern-work of a masterful Bajoran craftsman, and as you remove your own earring to replace it you handle it with appropriate care.</p><p>You have no idea how to fix your hair or makeup to complement the fine dress and jewelry, but in the end you settle for a simple look, letting the outfit speak for itself.</p><p>When you emerge, Weyoun is standing at the window, staring patiently out with hands clasped behind his back. As he turns to face you, warmth rises up to your cheeks – both at the genuine joy which overcomes him at your appearance, and at the flattering garment he’d donned himself.</p><p>His robe, woven of heather fabric in the same hue as your tulle train, hugs him tightly around the chest and then billows down around his calves. Black lining traces the sharp angles of the open neckline, either square shoulder, and the diagonal cut across his waist where the robe parts. The asymmetrical slit reveals a pair of fitted black slacks beneath, complemented by polished dress boots, and as Weyoun reaches a hand out to you you note the curious cut of his sleeves – which cling to his upper arms snugly and flare out a bit around his hands, long enough to reach his knuckles.</p><p>You take his hand with a giggle, and, smiling, he pulls you into his arms.</p><p>“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs into your ear. The compliment is simple and genuine and you feel, again, like a blushing maiden in the arms of your shining knight – though in such regal attire, <em> prince </em>might be a more apt comparison.</p><p>“I could say the same of you,” you grin. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in purple.”</p><p>“I’m told it brings out my eyes.”</p><p>You take Weyoun’s arm as the two of you (followed, as you exit, by Jem’Hadar in formal dress uniform) make your way down to the ballroom on the ground floor where the event is being held. A black tie mixer – formally celebrating the “friendship” between Bajor and its new ally now that tensions had settled down. An opportunity for both sides to showboat and network with one another, graciously hosted by the Bajoran provisional government, who was finally beginning to accept that this partnership was looking less and less temporary.</p><p>The ballroom is vast and glittering, ostentatiously decorated and set up with elegant dinner tables arranged around the stage at the far end. Others have already started to gather, mingling in small groups as waiters pass around trays of hors d'oeuvres and champagne. You scan briefly for familiar faces; on the open balcony you spot a group of vedeks conversing mutedly with the kai, whose usually smug expression, you’re somewhat pleased to see, is twisted into one of wrinkled disdain. The first minister stands before a group of other higher-ranking officials – members of the Council, you presume – by the staging area, chatting animatedly away. Others you don’t recognize – throngs of bureaucrats from various levels of government and religious organizations, Jem’Hadar and Bajoran security forces, even a few smartly-dressed Cardassians – weave their way through the crowd, schmoozing and laughing and sipping lightly at their drinks.</p><p>“Time to make our introductions,” Weyoun leans over to whisper in your ear, and you grip his arm a little tighter, trying not to wear your nervousness on your expression. These are <em> important people </em> – and you’re a nobody, unskilled in the social graces, lacking in knowledge of proper etiquette or the intricacies of political discussion. As Weyoun strides confidently over toward First Minister Shakaar, you take a deep breath and plaster on a smile, reminding yourself your only job right now is to <em> be quiet and look pretty. </em></p><p>Weyoun handles himself beautifully. It takes a great deal of self-control not to stare at him in open-mouthed adoration as he displays his many years’ experience in diplomatic matters. The names of even the most obscure bureaucrats come readily, recalled as though he’s simply greeting an old friend; every word is carefully selected and yet quick to the tongue, eloquent and ingratiating without being overly unctuous; graceful segues and skillful digressions allow him to manipulate conversations to his liking, steering away from uncomfortable subjects and toward topics on which he can more easily find common ground.</p><p>To every dignitary, he introduces you as, “my lovely partner, Y/N,” which brings a hint of color to your cheeks beneath your makeup. It’s a heavily connotative word – one you’ll have to discuss with him later, behind closed doors. In the weeks since you began seeing Weyoun, the only conversation you’d shared about the exact definition of your relationship began and ended at his confession that he wanted to see more of you. He let his actions speak for the rest: his familiar touches, his lingering kisses, the stolen moments of conversation whenever he found himself with enough free time to seek you out or join you for a meal.</p><p><em> He </em> <b> <em>must</em> </b> <em> be quite serious to show me off so publicly, </em> you muse as you take your assigned seat at one of the tables, set with fine dinnerware and tall glasses already filled with springwine. But as you take your first sip, already a bit buzzed from the champagne, a sobering thought occurs to you.</p><p>
  <em> Did he just bring me along because it looks good to my people to have a Bajoran woman on his arm? </em>
</p><p>You can’t address the concern right now. As the lights had dimmed and the guests found their seats, Weyoun had slipped away to join the other officials backstage in preparation to make an address, leaving you alone among strangers. Nervously fiddling with your glass, you watch the stage and wait.</p><p>Just as First Minister Shakaar is taking the podium, you feel a presence that makes your skin crawl. A shadowy figure slips into the seat beside you – and you stiffen, nearly rising up out of your chair when you recognize him.</p><p>
  <em> “Dukat!” </em>
</p><p>The Cardassian responds to your hiss with a sickening smile and a low, pleasant murmur under the hush of the room. “Miss Y/N. A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”</p><p>You avert your eyes, wildly uncomfortable. The Gul’s penchant for Bajoran women is widely renowned and you have no intention of even suggesting you’d be willing to entertain him.</p><p>“I wish I could say the same. I’m surprised they even allowed you to step foot on Bajor.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m sure there are some who tried to refuse me an invitation,” he hums, unperturbed completely by your iciness. “But it would be an insult to have excluded me from these proceedings. I am, after all, the leader of the Cardassian Union and commander of Terok Nor, working in tandem with the Bajoran provisional government and its new ally. I think we both believe it’s well past time to put old history behind us and try to build a new, more <em> equal </em> working relationship.”</p><p>You feel his gaze on you still as he reaches for his glass, the words of the first minister fading into background noise as you stare hard at your plate.</p><p>“You needn’t worry,” Dukat says finally, his smile still audible in every slimy word. “Weyoun has made it expressly clear to me that you are off-limits. Besides – at the moment I have eyes only for Major Kira.” He punctuates her name with a wistful sigh. “A shame she couldn’t be here tonight. What I wouldn’t give to see her all dolled up in an elegant evening gown...”</p><p>Kai Winn is speaking now, doling out empty platitudes about the path the Prophets have laid out for the Bajoran people. You hate this woman, the epitome of everything a kai shouldn’t be – power-hungry, condescending, endlessly twisting the words of the Prophets to fit her own misguided purposes – but you focus on her speech in an effort to distract yourself from Dukat’s incessant blathering about the Major.</p><p>He finally quiets, however, when Weyoun takes the stage. As does most of the room; for many of these people, this is the first face they’ve seen of the Dominion, having only read written reports and heard second-hand accounts until this moment. They’re eager to see with whom exactly they’ve gotten into bed.</p><p>“My friends,” he begins, a steady smile stretched across his face and a convincing twinkle in his eye, “I’m honored to have been invited here tonight. On behalf of the Dominion and our Cardassian allies–”</p><p>Beside you, Dukat shifts. You have the distinct feeling he wished to be up on that stage himself. Perhaps Weyoun forbade it.</p><p>“–I congratulate you on your wisdom in choosing to accept our offer of friendship, and look forward to a productive and mutually beneficial relationship between our peoples. This dinner is but an auspicious beginning to the bonds we will continue to forge between Bajor and the Dominion in the name of peace, progress, and prosperity; let it be the first step toward a lasting partnership and, perhaps one day, a more permanent alliance. Thank you once again.”</p><p>With a bow of the head and a clasp of his hands, Weyoun wraps up his short-but-sweet address and disappears backstage. Moments later, as the host is doling out announcements about the proceedings and the lights begin to raise once more, he appears at your table.</p><p>“Dukat,” he greets coldly, his hands on the back of your chair as he locks eyes with the Cardassian, who fixes him with a look of equal contempt. Then, softer, Weyoun directs his attention down to you. “My dear. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in my seat instead.”</p><p>“Perhaps I would,” you agree, endlessly grateful as you switch to the chair beside you. Weyoun takes the one you’ve just vacated, placing himself between you and the Dukat. Dukat merely narrows his eyes, insulted but unable to really blame either of you.</p><p>The dinner, thankfully, becomes far less tense over time. Alcohol lubricates the wheels of conversation and you even find yourself stepping in, at times, to offer valuable insight of your own as the guests around you engage in all manner of discussion – from politics and local events to, later on, personal anecdotes and even outright gossip. As meals are finished and bottles of springwine polished off, people rise from their tables to intermingle once again, and Weyoun leads you from group to group, strengthening impressions and solidifying connections.</p><p>Hours later, things have begun to wind down. The music has stopped; the majority of the guests have filtered out. Weyoun, returning from a conversation, finds you sitting at a table with your feet slipped out of your heels, picking at a slice of tuwaly pie. He rests a hand on your back between your shoulder blades.</p><p>“Ready to leave?”</p><p>You push your plate away. “Am I.”</p><p>Back in the suite, he offers you a nightcap – Bajoran brandy, this time, a vintage he likely had special ordered – and it warms you from the inside out as you stand together on the balcony, barefoot, staring out at the smattering of stars in the night sky beneath the cool mountain breeze.</p><p>You glance over to Weyoun, close enough for your arm to brush his as you take a sip of your drink. Eyeing his largely untouched glass, you nudge him.</p><p>“You don’t like it?”</p><p>“Oh,” he murmurs, looking down to the liquor as if just remembering it was there. He swirls the liquid pensively around the glass. “It’s largely undetectable to my taste buds. I have no preference one way or the other. Though, it is rather smooth for a liquor.”</p><p>“You should still drink it,” you encourage, your words slurring together just the slightest bit between your fatigue and your inebriation. “It’ll keep you warm.”</p><p>Weyoun aims a measured smile your way.</p><p>“Vorta are immune to most poisons – alcohol among them. I’d be quite unaffected by its warming properties, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“Oh,” is your only reply at first, a little sad, then suddenly understanding. “No wonder. You had a drink in your hand the whole night long and I was <em> sure </em>you were just pretending to sip at it. I was, uh–” and you falter, grin a little nervously, “–hoping to get a chance to see what you’re like when you’re drunk.”</p><p>Weyoun returns your grin with a playful one of his own; switching his glass to the opposite hand, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you to lean into him.</p><p>“I assure you you do not. Remember my comment about dancing?”</p><p>Giggling, you nod.</p><p>“Then you can see why I prefer to retain an image of grace and poise at all times. I’ll keep my wits about me, thank you very much.”</p><p>Unable to resist the temptation so close to his face, you lean in and press your lips against his. You intended only a peck – but as you try to pull away, he doesn’t let you go. The kiss lingers long enough to fuel a blossoming of warmth deep within you, sudden and electric. Quite unlike the one the brandy has bestowed.</p><p>Just as you hear the <em> clink </em>of Weyoun setting his glass down – just as his other arm winds around you and holds you tighter to him and the kiss begins to deepen – the worrying thought which unsettled you earlier sneaks back, like a bothersome pest, into the forefront of your mind. At once, the intoxicating hold feels suddenly suffocating, his lips against yours invasive and unwelcome. You pull back with reluctance.</p><p>Weyoun lets you go, sensing your sudden change in body language, but keeps his arms wound around your waist. His expression has melted into one of concern and faint disappointment.</p><p>“Weyoun,” you start before he can inquire what’s wrong, and then you hesitate, fearful of the answer you might receive. He remains silent, watching you carefully. Finally, quietly, you manage: “Did you...did you invite me here just because it would look good to have a Bajoran woman on your arm?”</p><p>His face falls. He’s hurt by the question and you regret asking it immediately.</p><p>His hold around you slackens as he speaks. “Admittedly, it was an advantage of having you here with me.”</p><p>You start to stiffen. He cuts in hurriedly before you can pull away.</p><p>“But...forgive me for saying so, Y/N, but I believe I’ve made my feelings about you quite clear by now. Your presence in my life vastly improves it. The time I get to spend in the pleasure of your company is always the highlight of my day.”</p><p>He reaches up with a gentle hand to brush a stray hair from your eyes, watching you thoughtfully as he goes on.</p><p>“You’re the first person I’ve encountered in a long time who seems to...<em> care </em>about me on more than just a surface level. You may not understand the Founders’ reasons for limiting me the way they have–”</p><p>Your nose wrinkles. This is a subject on which you both heavily disagree.</p><p>“–but I can recognize you simply want me to enjoy a richer, more fulfilling life. That is something I cannot say for the majority of the people I’ve allowed to...get close to me, over the years.”</p><p>He caresses the side of your face, and his touch is cool, comforting. Instinctively, you lean into it.</p><p>“You aren’t here to exploit me in some way. You’re not attempting to leverage my position to gain power for yourself or strike out at the Dominion.” He cocks an eyebrow and his voice takes on a lighter, more playful tone. “Unless, of course, Starfleet Intelligence has reached out to you and swayed you to their side while I wasn’t looking.”</p><p>The jab pries a light chuckle from your lips, and relieved to have broken the ice, Weyoun smiles back down at you – his thumb stroking over your cheek.</p><p>“So please, believe me when I say I invited you here for no other reason than I wanted you by my side. You are...<em> precious </em> to me.”</p><p>The corners of his eyes crease as he graces you with a softer, deeper smile, and you bask in its glow. Delicately, his hand traces to the spot behind your ear where your universal translator is implanted – startling you – but, your gaze questioning, you allow him to brush the switch to disable it. He leans in; goosebumps prickle across your bare arms at the feeling of his breath, humid and intimate, against your ear. His native Vortawa slips out in a smooth, mellifluous purr, and the sound of it sends shivers down your spine before you even know the meaning of the words he’s whispered.</p><p>
  <em> “Sen zheilashan.” </em>
</p><p>And then, in perfect, nearly accentless Bajoran, he translates for you.</p><p>
  <em> “You are my gift.” </em>
</p><p>He pulls back to look at you. For a moment, all you can do is stare. He’s completely, utterly disarmed you – his gentle gaze, his careful hold, his honeyed words.</p><p>You believe you’re falling in love.</p><p>All you can do – the only thing, right now, you’re capable of – is set your glass hurriedly down on the ledge and throw your arms around his neck, burying your face as tightly into the crook of it as possible. Eyes squeezed shut, enveloped in his comforting warmth, you lose yourself in his scent and his presence and his tightly wound arms as they snake more firmly around your waist, holding you to him as surely as though he intends to keep you here forever. You feel his face turn into the side of your neck as well, his skin soft against yours, and hear him inhale deeply – grateful, relieved, excited, you’re not sure.</p><p>And then his lips are on your skin, pressing soft, affectionate kisses below your ear and beneath your jaw, and your head tilts of its own accord to offer him the expanse of your neck – an invitation he takes without hesitation. He hurries to cover the soft flesh in kisses that quickly become deeper and warmer and more lingering as he descends, sparking currents of electricity that course throughout your veins. He draws a whimper out of you as he latches onto a spot between your neck and shoulder, sucking lightly, tongue darting out to lap over the hickey he’s leaving there, and you cling onto the fabric of his robe and arch into him–</p><p>And the next moment you’re being whisked away, out of the cool spring breeze and into the cloistered shelter of the suite, past the living space and into Weyoun’s bedroom. You both hurry inside, eager to feel your hands on one another, to shed the clothing that’s become so stifling in such a short amount of time.</p><p>Your heart races as Weyoun grabs and pulls you close once more; your lips connect before you have time to think. Blindly, you fumble for the clasps of his robe. He guides your hands to it and, as you work the fastenings, he tugs down the zipper at the back of your dress. Savoring the feeling of your bare skin beneath his palms, he slides his hands down the expanse of your back to part the fabric – and you yank Weyoun’s robe off his shoulders as the dress falls from your torso, leaving you both bare-chested against one another.</p><p>The heat of his chest against yours brings a warm glow to your cheeks, and you feel exposed, vulnerable. Instinctively you lean into him; he holds you with a reassuring firmness, his touch gentle and still on your waist until he’s certain you’ve adjusted to the feeling and relaxed enough to continue. Pressing up into the kiss, you slide your hands up his bare shoulders and tangle them into his hair, and there you hold him as your tongue darts out to request entry – a motion he returns with a low sigh of approval, his lips parting and his tongue unexpectedly long and dextrous as it entwines with yours.</p><p>You squirm beneath his hands as they slip below the fabric still clinging to your hips, encouraging it to slide down and off until the dress pools at your feet. Eager to be on even ground, you reach for the front of his slacks, but as you do you find yourself immediately distracted by the hardness forming just beneath the fabric.</p><p>You can’t help yourself. Palming the bulge, you sigh in satisfaction at Weyoun’s soft moan muffled against your lips, his body responding to your touch with visible need. His hands grasp at the curves of your ass as you press and rub at him and he grinds forward into your touch; you both break from the kiss, panting, breathless–</p><p>And he steps forward, backing you up until the bed hits the back of your knees. You acquiesce and lie back across it, supporting your weight on your elbows; his violet eyes hold your gaze with paralyzing ferocity as he undoes his slacks, sheds them with ease, and climbs atop you.</p><p>It’s all happening so fast. You think back, as Weyoun trails wet, open-mouthed kisses down your neck and chest, to the moment at the threshold in your quarters when you’d hesitated to so much as kiss him. Over the next few weeks, the extent of your physical closeness had been limited – lingering touches, gentle embraces, kisses that ranged from soft and chaste to deep, passionate, wanting. Weyoun was careful never to push you past the bounds of your comfort, but every touch had sparked jolts of electricity, dangerous currents that excited as much as terrified you – and as you tangle your hands into the soft curls of his hair you curse yourself for not giving in sooner.</p><p>His mouth is on your breast now, tongue swirling around a perked nipple, and he palms the other hungrily. You squirm beneath him; his touch is lighting a fire within you and it’s escaping through your lips in whimpers and mewls. With a final lick he parts from the captive bosom and leans up, fixing you with an intense gaze.</p><p>
  <em> “Sen ko me?” </em>
</p><p>Right. The translator.</p><p>You reach up to switch it back on in order to understand him – but Weyoun snatches your wrist in mid-air. Eyes wide, you stare questioningly up at him. He regards you for a long moment with a cock of the head and a faint smile at the corners of his lips until, satisfied you won’t disobey, he releases your wrist. You let it fall back to the mattress.</p><p>Slowly, firmly, he massages his palm over one of your breasts.</p><p><em> “Sounno,” </em>he croons.</p><p>You don’t understand.</p><p>He takes one of your hands and guides it to the bare expanse of his chest.</p><p>
  <em> “Sounno.” </em>
</p><p>A soft gasp falls from your lips as it clicks: he’s giving you a Vortawa lesson in anatomy.</p><p>“Sounno,” you repeat, tasting the word, though it doesn’t sound as articulate coming from you as it did from Weyoun. He smiles, nods softly.</p><p>Then, descending again, he presses a lingering kiss to the dip between your breasts and trails a path down your torso, his hands following in his wake. He pauses over your abdomen, glancing up to meet your eyes as his fingers spread over the soft mound of flesh.</p><p>
  <em> “Sountha.” </em>
</p><p>“Sountha,” you exhale, not certain whether he’s referring to your belly or your abdomen or something else but impatient for him to continue his journey.</p><p>The glint in his eye gives you the distinct impression he knows you’re just hurrying him along, but he continues all the same. His lips dance over your hip bones and down the top of one of your thighs, which he takes in his hands, parting it gently from the other.</p><p><em> “Waratha,” </em>he murmurs into your inner thigh, and you shiver, grip the sheets. His eyes dart back up to you sharply when you don’t respond, and hastily you repeat the word back to him.</p><p>His half-lidded gaze remains fixed on you now, and his breath is hot and humid against your skin as he inches closer to your sex. You bite your lip to contain yourself as he hooks his hands beneath your thighs to pull you into a more accommodating angle.</p><p>Fully exposed, your most intimate area now inches from Weyoun’s face, you shift uncomfortably – and impatiently. Your face glows crimson hot; your thighs tremble and twitch.</p><p>You realize you’ve wanted this from the moment you first laid eyes on the Vorta from across the Promenade.</p><p>He traces a fingertip over the fleshy hills and valleys of your anatomy and his touch is so electrifying you almost don’t hear the word that falls from his lips like a whispered obscenity.</p><p>
  <em> “Qitha.” </em>
</p><p>He doesn’t wait for your response before occupying his mouth with your <em> qitha.  </em></p><p>It’s evident Weyoun has studied his Bajoran physiology extensively; he knows exactly what places on which to focus as his agile tongue makes short work of you. He devours you with a hunger and ferocity that suggest he’s waited just as long as you have for this moment, and – squirming, moaning, trembling beneath him – it’s all you can do to pry him away before he can draw your orgasm out of you too soon.</p><p>As you tug at him he sits up acquiescently, clearly satisfied at the state to which he’s reduced you. While you’re trying to to catch your breath you watch him raise a hand to his lips and wipe away the fluids lingering there with his thumb – which, to your mortification and lustful delight alike, he takes into his mouth to suck away every precious drop of your nectar with obvious enjoyment.</p><p><em> “Azhe,” </em>he clarifies as he climbs over you once more, but between the lustful haze of your near-orgasm and the nonspecificity of his statement, you aren’t connecting the dots.</p><p>“Azhe?”</p><p>“Mmm.” He hums in thought as he lowers himself to you, pressing meandering kisses along your cheek and neck. With a gentle lean forward of his hips, his cock presses up against your cunt, drawing from you a soft gasp. Weyoun’s grin – whether at your reaction or at finally finding the right word in Bajoran – is evident in his voice as he murmurs into your ear: “A euphemistic equivalent in your language would be <em> juices.” </em></p><p>“Juices,” you repeat, stunned, and then continue on breathlessly: “It sounds much nicer in your language. I didn’t know you–”</p><p>Your words halt, interrupted by a sudden moan as Weyoun grinds himself into you. You turn your head into his and pant against his ear for a moment while you gather yourself enough to continue.</p><p>“...I didn’t know you...knew Bajoran...this whole time.”</p><p><em> “Zheilashan,” </em> he sighs, and the breathless epithet makes your heart flutter, “you didn’t expect me to – get in bed with the Bajorans – without learning their language first?”</p><p>You pull back enough to give him a sharp look at the double entendre. He responds with a quiet laugh. </p><p>Seized by the playful shift in mood, you lunge up at him – and use your slight weight to roll the two of you over until your positions are reversed. His hands rest on your waist when you straddle him, and from his amused and expectant expression you deduce he isn’t altogether unhappy with the role reversal.</p><p>Bracing your weight on his chest, you indulge yourself for a moment and grind down along the length of his <em> qitha</em>, and both of you tense and gasp at the sensation. His grip tightens on you, but you wriggle out of it in order to crawl down his body, intent on satiating your curiosity before you get to the main course.</p><p>He parts his legs to accommodate you and you settle between them. The sight that greets you reminds you of the erotic exoticism of the situation – not that you haven’t slept with other species before, of course, but the novelty of each new body never fails to excite you. Weyoun is average in length (for what you’re used to, anyhow; you’ve no idea the average size of a Vorta), but the shape is foreign and alien: curved, tapering from a thick base to a smooth, indented tip, with ridges decorating either side. And beneath the organ, he sports a set of fleshy lips like your own, though the slit is much shorter in length and neater, too, with only a single set of labia. All of it, smooth and hairless, blushing purple, straining visibly.</p><p>You waste no time exploring this new landscape.</p><p>Weyoun shifts and squirms under your ministrations as you work out which parts are the most sensitive, which areas draw the best sounds from him. His breathing quickens as you rub your fingertips across the delicate ridges of his shaft; he exhales a drawn-out sigh as you stroke your thumb over the slit nestled in the concave tip.</p><p>Then, questioning, you trace a finger over the entrance below his cock. He twitches at your touch, and unable to read his expression, you reach out hesitantly: “Is this okay?”</p><p><em> “Se,” </em> he responds, a little hurriedly. <em> “Da ko.” </em>His slight nod and the encouraging forward lean of his hips translate his meaning for you.</p><p>His opening is well-lubricated with <em> azhe </em> and accepts your finger readily. You take the tip of his cock into your mouth as you explore inside him, adding a second digit after the first begins to feel inadequate, and above you Weyoun gasps and shudders.</p><p>You feel his hand snake into your hair as you descend further down on his length, your tongue lapping at the underside. His fingers run through the soft strands appreciatively as your own curl and thrust inside him, uncertain but eager. And then, striking gold, you freeze as his sudden deep moan cuts through the air.</p><p><em> “Zhora da,” </em> Weyoun pants, his tone urgent, and you pull up to lick at his tip as he fumbles for the correct pronoun in Bajoran. <em> “There.” </em></p><p>Obliging him, you rake your fingers over the spot they’ve found. He whimpers – a sound that surprises and delights you – and presses down into your hand. As you drag back and forth over that sweet spot within him his hips rock with the motions, and you bob your head in rhythm, hollowing your cheeks and sucking at as much of his length as you can handle while your free hand strokes at what your lips can’t reach. His soft sounds grow increasingly louder and more frequent as you speed up, sink deeper, thrust harder; you’re undoing him quickly and he doesn’t seem to care if it shows.</p><p>Finally his hand grasps at your hair, mimicking the way yours did to his minutes ago, and through a strained voice he pleads: “Stop, stop! <em> Kaeno.”  </em></p><p>You’re tempted to disobey. But, not wanting to spoil the fun (and without the slightest clue as to the length of a Vorta’s refractory period), you pull up with reluctance.</p><p>Weyoun is a sight to behold. Panting raggedly, cheeks dusted with an aubergine blush, hair ruffled, he struggles to regain his senses as he pushes himself to sit up.</p><p>“You,” he says simply, the word conveying all his frustration, his affection, his astonishment and adoration. His hand slips to the back of your neck and pulls you in for a suffocating kiss.</p><p>The two of you become a tangle of limbs as Weyoun entwines himself with you; he rolls you on your side and his thigh wedges between yours, rubbing against your sex, and you moan and gyrate against him with growing desperation. His <em> qitha </em>presses into your thigh and his hand is in your hair and on your breast and then it’s sliding between your legs and your breath catches in your throat as he rubs your clit heavily, and you muffle your sounds against him, you grasp his arms and roll your hips and pull him close–</p><p>And then he’s atop you and between your legs, his cock replacing his hand as he drags the tip of it over your slick folds, his lips retreating from yours as he pulls up to meet your gaze.</p><p>The threat and promise of his <em> qitha </em>aligning with your entrance causes a sudden slew of emotions to overwhelm you: apprehension, nervousness, unease. But under the absolute halcyon of Weyoun’s gaze, tender and patient beneath his obvious desire, fixed on yours like the reassuring guidance of a lighthouse’s beam cutting through storm rains, they all begin to fade to nothingness.</p><p>Sensing your disquiet, Weyoun shifts his weight to his forearm and brings a hand up to your cheek. You lean into his comforting touch; you take a steadying breath.</p><p><em> “Sen shou me?” </em>he asks, his tone gentle. “Are you ready?”</p><p>Your heart pounds. Your thighs tremble. You’re quivering with want and with fear, about to be fucked by the man who arranged the occupation of the space station you call home alongside Bajor’s oppressors of old, who strong-armed your people into a politically self-defensive nonaggression pact that may or may not have irrevocably changed the future of their world, who’s treated you with such kindness and adoration during your short tryst together you don’t think you can bring yourself to care.</p><p>You nod.</p><p>Slowly, carefully, Weyoun guides his strangely-shaped organ into you. You gasp and arch as he stretches you taut, the wonderful warmth and pleasure of being filled tinged only by the slightest undercurrent of pain. Fully submerged, he pauses to allow you time to adjust; his arm wraps around your waist and holds you close to him, and his weight is comforting atop you, his gaze unmistakably lustful yet deeply affectionate as his face hovers just inches above yours.</p><p>Shuddering at the feeling of your warm, wet <em>qitha</em> enveloping his own, Weyoun allows his eyes to close and rests his forehead against yours. Your arms wind around his neck. Together, you both breathe, holding one another in the most intimate embrace two humanoids can share.</p><p>And then you begin to shift, and squirm, and the shocks of sensation that result are far less painful than they are pleasurable, and instantly you need more. Responding to your movements, Weyoun braces you as he slides out and thrusts carefully back in.</p><p>The pace he establishes at first is languorous and easy. His head falls until his cheek rests against yours and his lips brush against your ear; you feel each shallow exhale as he sinks into you, and gripping him tighter, you moan your enjoyment into his ear as well. The sound against his ridged cartilage clearly affects him deeply and he rewards you with a groan of his own, his pace quickening, his cock throbbing inside you.</p><p>You decide to take advantage of the obvious weakness. Weyoun’s breath hitches and stutters as you nibble along the outer ridges of his ear, and the cartilage grows warm under your attention, darkening with a violet blush. Your tongue is halfway up a long, languid lick when he jolts you with a suddenly harsh thrust; the soft yelp that issues from your lips only pushes him further and you’re quickly rocking together in a frenzy, his increasingly rapid and shallow motions stimulating you in the best possible way, your back arching, your hips bucking, his panting labored and his grip tightening–</p><p>And, realizing he’s gotten carried away, Weyoun pulls up to survey you. His thrusts slow only slightly, growing deeper and more deliberate, and rolling your hips down into him, you try and fail to contain a moan. One of Weyoun’s hands finds your face again and guides you to look in his eyes, and you find desire and tenderness in equal parts within his smoldering gaze, and the color in his cheeks and the parting of his lips sparks a blossom of heat in your innermost core.</p><p><em> “Sen heizha da me?” </em>he asks, low and husky, and you scramble to try to understand his meaning beneath the intense haze of your euphoria. His translation follows after a strained groan. “Does this – please you?”</p><p>“Yes,” you whisper, pulling him down. He grants your request and mashes his lips to yours, parting only long enough to issue a murmured command.</p><p>“In Vortawa: <em> se.” </em></p><p>“Se,” you correct, and passion imbues your voice in the uttered syllable, spurring Weyoun to groan and redouble his efforts. Your hips tilt until he finds that sweet spot inside you and it drives you to madness as he drags over it with every thrust; urgency demands you part from the kiss to gasp and plead up at him: “Faster!”</p><p><em> “Zhensho,” </em>he corrects, breathlessly ravishing your neck as your head falls to the side, and you repeat the word back with desperation. He eagerly complies.</p><p>Between his skillful lips and tongue, the rapid rolls of his hips, and his tight embrace, it isn’t long before you’re an uncomprehending mess beneath him. Your head swims with euphoria; wanton noises escape you with every thrust. At some point your arms fall to the mattress beside you, and Weyoun untangles from the embrace to lace his fingers with yours.</p><p><em> “Elaishan sen wau,” </em>you hear from above, and helpless to understand, you look up at him for guidance. You both groan as he rocks into you with a few slow, deep thrusts, and he leans in to hover above your lips, brushing against them as he collects himself enough to translate.</p><p>“Say my name.”</p><p>You exhale an obscenity in Bajoran at the lasciviousness of it before crying his name out softly. His lips tug upward in enjoyment of the sound – but he wants more.</p><p>“Louder,” he breathes. “<em>Zhenkorun.” </em></p><p>One of his hands frees itself from yours and slides between your parted thighs. As he rubs your clit, you find you need very little convincing to follow his directive.</p><p><em> “ </em> Fuck – <em> Weyoun!” </em></p><p>His breaths come hot and heavy against your lips; you cling to him desperately, your voice rising in pitch, your cries becoming more urgent as he fucks you toward that looming edge. Sensing your need, he maintains his pace exactly where it’s at – pushing you further and further with every thrust, lapping up the sound of his own name falling in moans from your lips.</p><p><em> “Sen azhuru shan,” </em>he exhales, and though you don’t know the meaning of the words, the way they positively drip with lust satisfies his intention exactly as they draw you over the edge.</p><p>Ecstasy blinds you. Quivering, convulsing, crying out wordlessly, you come around him, and above you Weyoun gasps shakily and bucks into you, tense in every muscle as warm liquid bursts from his <em> qitha </em>into yours.</p><p>For several moments so long they seem to stretch into eternity, all you know is bliss.</p><p>And then, slowly, reality fades back in. Weyoun lowers to rest on top of you, his face beside yours, his <em> qitha </em>still submerged as you twitch and tremble with aftershocks. As the orgasm fades you feel his arms wrap around you, and bleary-eyed, you wind your own around his shoulders in return. For a while the two of you lay in the embrace, recovering; eventually you catch your breath, but exhaustion is swiftly claiming you between the physical exertion, the softness of the bed, the booze you earlier imbibed, and the very, very long day you’ve had.</p><p>Weyoun sits up, but your eyes are suddenly impossible to open, and your arms – too heavy to lift – fall to the bed. You hear him chuckle softly.</p><p>“Clean-up will have to wait, I suppose.”</p><p>You manage an indistinct, “Mhm.”</p><p>He resettles beside you and scoops you back into his arms. Half-unconscious already, you can only nestle weakly into his shoulder, and as sleep swallows you the last thing of which you’re aware is a pair of lips pressing softly to the crown of your head.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A massive, massive thank-you to howelleheir, with whose Vortawa conlang I've come to be obsessed.</p><p>Sen ko me? - Are you alright?<br/>sounno - chest<br/>sountha - belly<br/>waratha - leg<br/>qitha - flowery slang term for genetalia literally translated as "lower fruit"<br/>azhe - juices (in the vulgar sense of the word)<br/>Se, da ko. - Yes, it's alright.<br/>kaeno - no more<br/>Sen azhuru shan. - Come for me.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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